When I come back out, I see that Mom has also changed into her PJs. There are two plates of cake on the coffee table, and American Ninja Warrior is paused on the TV. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, and I’m fifteen years old again, watching TV with Mom like we used to every night. Before seeing Mom turned into a biannual thing.
I sit down, and pick up my plate as Mom hits play.
“So,” she says. “Have any girls made it past the meet and greet?”
I check my smart watch. “I’ve been home twenty minutes. That’s how long it takes for you to start prying into my personal life?”
“I’m not prying, I’m curious. Come on, who is she?”
I keep my stare steady. “I haven’t really been dating, I’m focusing on my writing at the moment.”
“Well, okay then, Mr. Mysterious.”
“Are there any guys in your life?” I ask.
“I’m not telling if you’re not.”
I roll my eyes.
A text from Ruben arrives, and I smile as I read it.
I miss you already!
“What’s that smile for?” asks Mom. “Is it a girl?”
I tilt my phone away. “It’s just Ruben.”
“Already? Didn’t you just say goodbye to him?”
“Yeah but he’s my—Ruben.”
Mom musses my hair. I leave it; I like it better this way anyway.
I type back: I miss you too man.
Ruben responds with a thumbs-up, which I know is just to annoy me. I’ve ranted to him before about how I think they’re passive-aggressive.
TAKE THAT BACK.
He gives me another thumbs-up.
Bastard.
I smile, then I turn my phone off, with no plans to turn it back on for at least forty-eight hours.
Whatever happens, happens. It can wait.
Zach Knight of Saturday is officially checked out until I get to Angel’s party.
* * *
Angel’s party is, in a word: ridiculous.
He wasn’t even kidding about the peacocks. I can see a few of them now, strutting their stuff on the lawn. They’re on leashes, held by handlers in green jumpsuits. So yeah. Ridiculous is the only appropriate word. This venue is enormous, built in front of a large lake, and a lot of the free space has been done up like a fair, with stalls and entertainers. There are two carnival rides: a pirate ship and a spinning one with a rotating arm. There’s even an enormous bounce house.
For who? Who knows?
As utterly over the top as this whole setup is, I can’t help but smile. It’s so very Angel. Plus, there aren’t any paparazzi or fans here, and while there’s a big crowd, it’s only people in the game. Security guards prowl the perimeter, which means I don’t have to have my guard up as much as I normally do. In terms of safety, anyway.
I’m standing beside Jon in the parking lot, looking out at the whole spectacle. His shirt is tight and I’m wearing all-black, so we’re on-brand, even here. He pulls out his phone and scrolls. I get it, he’s been around stuff like this his whole life, whereas when I was a kid the most exciting party I ever had was at McDonald’s, and as a younger teenager I usually skipped having a party in exchange for more presents. The others would never get that, especially Ruben and Jon—they were always rich and got richer—but I never would’ve gone to anything even close to this if it weren’t for Saturday.
It’s probably my emotions talking, but I kind of wish Mom could see this.
Earlier today, I had to say goodbye to her. I chew my lip, trying to keep the building ache in my chest down. I want to enjoy myself tonight, so I should stop going down this mental rabbit hole. There’s no getting out of it if I really let it sink in. It’s just, I only just got back—
“Are those fire dancers?” asks Jon, and he points toward two buff, oiled-up shirtless dudes holding fire sticks.
The younger of the two has a tattoo going down his side, but I can’t get a proper look without staring, and then I’ll be staring at a half-naked guy. Like the rest of Saturday, I’ve had countless gay rumors spread about me, and people are always looking for evidence to confirm the theory that I’m secretly gay. I hate how invasive and presumptive the rumors are, and how they’ve turned me looking at a guy’s tattoo into something I need to be cautious of.
I raise an eyebrow and cock my head. “That, or terrible strippers.”
Jon’s gaze is fixed on the dancers so we go and watch, joining a crowd of partygoers who have circled around the pair. I recognize a few soon-to-be A-list actors and millionaire Instagrammers, and oh my god, there’s Randy Kehoe, lead singer of Falling for Alice. He’s stroking his chin with leather-gloved hands, and his skull T-shirt has a red stain splashed down the front of it, turning the once-white skull an eerie bloodred. His hair is bubblegum pink now, to match their latest album, the one I practically have a crush on. I’m dying to say hey and become a gushy mess for a few minutes, but we’re all off duty at the moment. Nobody wants to be fawned over.
I also want to pick Randy’s brain about his writing process, but just the thought makes me blush. He’s an amazing lyricist, and I’m over here singing candy-corn factory-produced lyrics about girls that don’t exist. Why should he give me the time of day?
The fire dancers start a new dance, spinning their flaming batons around impossibly fast. I feel the heat on my face as they move, both totally in sync. Tattooed guy is really handsome, with dark hair and solid cheekbones. Then they both raise their batons to their mouths and spit, making it look like they’re breathing fire.
A cheer breaks out for them.
Oh, screw it. I chance a look down. His tattoo is of a dragon, its tail ending on his hip.
Huh. It actually looks awesome. I file the idea away for a future version of me that can finally get the tattoos I’ve been longing to get for years now. A version of me who doesn’t have to run anything I do to my own skin past my management team for approval first.
By the entrance to the main building, I see Geoff Braxton, holding a glass of champagne. He’s alone, too, which doesn’t happen often. People are demanding of us, but it’s nothing compared to him. I get it, if he decides you’re worth it he can make you a global superstar, richer and more famous than you can ever imagine. If you want to be famous, he’s a god.
“Go say hi,” says Jon. “Ask him if he’s heard back from Galactic about your tracks.”
“Really? I…”